


Sometimes I Say Too Much

by monopolizeme



Series: He Was Pointing At the Moon but I Was Looking At His Hand [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slow Build, cellphone chats, quiet memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizeme/pseuds/monopolizeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times when Stiles’ brain tells him to do funny things – not pull a face or pretend to mimic a human slinky – but stupid things that are probably embarrassing on a completely different level.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes I Say Too Much

 

Stiles likes the town of Whittmore. They arrive by mid-afternoon, taking a detour through the local towns because Stiles insists that he will start blasting 90s boy bands music if Derek does not take him _anywhere_ that does not involve boring highways or endless trees and thunderous 8-tracktor wheelers. Stiles thinks that Derek may enjoy the change of scenery as well, because his face does that subtle shift when they arrive – the muscles in his jaw slackening and his brows resting comfortably above his passive gaze out the windshield in front of him.

Stiles snorts back a laugh and remarks that they need to take a picture of the town’s “Welcome to Whittmore” sign and send it to Jackson. Derek doesn’t say anything in return, but the corner of his mouth pulls and Stiles knows that’s Derek speak for amused.

It’s a quaint little town, the kind you see in movies like _Pleasantville_ _,_ or TV shows like _Gilmore Girls_ (which Stiles _only_ knows about because of hanging out with Allison during full moons when Scott has gone all werewolf crazy and Allison needs the distraction). The streets are wide and open, and there are hardly any street lights, just pedestrian crossways and stop signs and it seems like cars just tend to stop on their own. It’s rather foreign to Stiles and Derek looks a bit irked at having to pause at every street corner for someone to make their way across. But Stiles likes it – he likes the brick faces of the stores and open windows; he likes the clock tower in the center square and the patches of tiny parks set at random spots lining the main streets.

Derek comments that he needs to fill the tank and Stiles stretches his legs while Derek works the gas pump. It feels good to flex his spine, arms stretching above his head as he twists his back and arches with the stretch of cramped tendons. His spine makes a small popping noise and Derek’s mouth does that half-smile that Stiles adores so much.

“I’m gonna explore for a bit, okay?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods, eyes on the meter. He drags them away slowly to Stiles.

“That’s fine, we can stay here for a while. There’s no rush.”

Stiles would _like_ to comment on that, how it would probably give him a much better frame of mind as to how long they can stop anywhere if Derek would just _tell_ him where they are going. Or when he planned on arriving and where _there_ is. Stiles always feels like he’s tip-toeing on a schedule that he is a part of but completely unaware of the details, and it’s mildly frustrating that he can never tell if he’s bothering Derek by asking him if they can hang out somewhere or if Derek is just placating his requests atop of unspoken irritation.

But Derek doesn’t look bothered now. He looks a little out of place, if Stiles is being perfectly honest, all black leather and dark brows and the quiet brooding, even if he is not actively trying to appear threatening. It’s becoming more and more difficult for Stiles to see Derek as threatening at all though; sometimes he forgets what Derek must look like to people around them.

“You want me to get you anything?” Stiles says, letting his hands fall by his sides.

Derek seems to contemplate that for a moment. But he shakes his head and puts his free hand in his pocket, elbow bending loosely and he looks so at _ease_.

Stiles smiles at this.

There are times when Stiles’ brain tells him to do funny things – not pull a face or pretend to mimic a human slinky – but stupid things that are probably embarrassing on a completely different level. And he usually ends up feeling ridiculous the second after he goes ahead and does whatever his brain is urging him on to do but sometimes he doesn’t regret it either. So Stiles comes up behind Derek, who stiffens at first as if he hadn’t heard Stiles come up behind him; and then Stiles’ arms have slid around Derek’s waist, beneath his jacket, because Stiles likes to have as much intimate contact as he can muster in a single touch.

“Don’t go off wandering too far, okay?” He murmurs against the shell of Derek’s ear. “I can’t sniff you out, you know.”

Derek chuckles, his body relaxing against Stiles’ embrace. He curls his hand around Stiles’ wrist, beneath the cuff of his sleeve and squeezes.

“A phone would certainly be a baseless idea.”

Stiles snorts, right into Derek’s ear because he knows how sensitive Derek is and Stiles was trying to make a _joke_. And Derek squandered it with his usual sense of rationalism.

“You better hope I don’t come back with something ridiculous, like an “I Heart Whittmore” T-shirt in the brightest color that I can find and make you wear it.”

Derek’s chest rumbles and he twists his face around. It’s a little awkward because Stiles is still firmly pressed against Derek’s back, but Stiles tilts his face to the side so he can meet Derek’s gaze.

“Wouldn’t want that.” Derek remarks quietly.

And Stiles nods and kisses him, lazy and slow and he wonders idly if people do that kind of thing here, kiss in the middle of the street and maybe they are the traditional type and would be horrifically offended to see two _guys_ kissing, for that matter.

It’s amazing how little Stiles seems to care about things when Derek is around.

_-_

Stiles makes it three blocks through the town before the decision is made that he must buy souvenirs. He hasn’t bought anything during this entire trip (although granted there is very little that you can buy from gas stations, hotel lobbies and roadside pit stops) and he is quite determined to do so now that he finally has the opportunity. He definitely has to get something for Scott, who he has not had the chance to talk to in a few days now. It’s weird and a little unfamiliar being separated from him, or at least unable to engage in some kind of verbal exchange. But it seems like Derek has been intent on driving them places where there is absolutely no phone reception whatsoever. Stiles finds that a little suspicious and only adds to the whole air of mystery surrounding this excursion. Or maybe he just needs to have a thorough conversation with his phone provider when he returns to Beacon Hills (whenever that will be).

Derek hasn’t seemed to be having too much of an issue contacting Isaac or Boyd – but he does so rarely and the conversations are quiet and short, as if Derek is just checking in to make sure that no one is dead or that the turf has not been compromised. But it doesn’t seem like Derek has been too concerned in whatever may be going on at home. It’s a strange avoidance behavior that has Stiles antsy whenever they do not talk about it – which is pretty much _all the time_.

There is a rack of key chains in one of the small shops he visits. They are the typical kind of souvenir that he’s seen Lydia receive in the past, not that she ever kept them: a tiny rectangular cut of paper with a person’s name printed on it and sealed with clear plastic. These nametags however have the person’s name printed over a colorful drawing of a wolf howling with a white topped mountain behind it and Stiles laughs because that is _perfect_.

His eyes are scanning over the tiny rows of key chains dangling from the rotating carousel, and he reaches blindly into his back pocket and fishes out his phone.

Stiles is not going to admit it to Derek, but he misses Scott. It’s not like he can’t go a few days without him but it’s a strange absence to be felt, to not even be able to text and sure Stiles isn’t about to go sharing carnival dating experiences (although he totally _should_ , he’s heard enough shit from Scott concerning his dates with Allison) but he’d still like to have _some_ kind of contact.

So he flicks through his contact list until he finds Scott and punches in a greeting that will convey the depth of friendship loss and absence blues that he is experiencing.

_Yo. What’s up?_

His phone vibrates not a minute later and Stiles grins before thumbing open the message.

_You’re still alive! You and Derek taking a break from rolling around in the sack like two sex-crazed teenagers?_

Stiles snorts at that and resists the urge to sulk over the fact that he cannot reply with some kind of Yes in response and offer vivid details that would most certainly send his friend into a spiral of unwanted mental imagery.

_Haha, you’re hilarious. I swear, Derek is intentionally driving us to places that have zero phone reception._

He peers through the racks of key chains, fingers flicking through the dangling bits of plastic in search of one name in particular.

_Yeah, intentional. He just wants you for himself without distractions._

Stiles grins. He’s not completely adverse to the idea, although he is still slightly irked over the fact that Derek refuses to tell him where they are headed. He should know that by now, right? Do people normally take their boyfriends on extended car trips without letting said boyfriend know of the intended destination?

He decides to ask Scott. He needs to talk about this with someone or he’s sure to go stir crazy over all of this _not-knowing_.

Scott doesn’t respond right away and that shouldn’t surprise Stiles too much, because if Allison is there then Scott is sure to be distracted.

Stiles huffs anyway.

_Dude, I am having an existential crisis here. Answers are to be given post-haste._

He rotates the metal carousel stand slowly, as it squeaks and creaks and makes like it is about to revolt against Stiles’ persistent searching and just topple over.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

_He hasn’t told you where you guys are going???_

Stiles rolls his eyes with such frustration that he’s almost surprised that he doesn’t detach an eye vein.

_Oh my god, would I have brought it up if he had? That was the most useless response ever. A complete waste of a text. Did you even try?_

He’s halfway to giving up on the damn key chain now.

_Ok, ok, sorry about that. It’s been four days. I kinda figured you already knew by now. But it’s Derek? And Derek’s sneaky? Maybe it’s a dominance thing?_

Stiles contemplates demoting Scott from title of Kill-Us-Both-Or-None-At-All–You-Cannot-Have-One-Without-the-Other to simply Yeah-You-Can-Have-Him.

_Wow. Thanks for three new useless questions there. Helps._

There is another three-minute delay which insinuates that Scott is either pulling at his hair or is really thinking hard about the next text.

His phone dances against his palm but it isn’t Scott this time.

_Where are you?_

Stiles wonders, for half a second really, if he should give Derek a go at his own game and be annoyingly elusive. But he’s pretty sure that Derek could sniff him out anyway and would probably end up grouchy about it. And Stiles likes it here, this quaint little town with its tiny gift shops and antique storefronts and quiet open plazas. He doesn’t want Derek in a _mood_ – he wants him to enjoy it as well.

_At a tourist shop a few blocks away from where you stopped for gas. I’m talking with Scott. Be back in fifteen?_

Derek replies a moment later, _That’s fine._

Stiles shoves his phone into his back pocket and crouches to his knees, eyes scanning the names alphabetically now, fingertips skimming down the rows.

_Ok, so maybe it’s a surprise? Maybe Derek wanted to try being a normal person for once and take you on a vacation. Or maybe he thinks you need hunter training and is taking you to some supernatural spawning grounds. Did you take your bestiality with you?_

A second text arrives immediately after:

_Bestiary. I know the difference._

Stiles snorts and shakes his head, eyeing the key chains a bit affectionately now because it’s _Scott_. And although Scott may be his best friend and is doing a champion job of accepting this whole _Derek and Stiles_ thing, he is still Scott. And isn’t always the most reliable source of helpful insight. So Stiles decides to give him a bone on this one ( _haha, Derek would be so proud_ ) and let it go.

_Yeah, no worries, man. Guess I’ll just have to pry it out of him myself. Text you again later. Tell Allison I said Hi._

Stiles snatches the finally discovered name tag and loops the tiny metal ring around his index finger, gives it a twirl. He’s halfway back to the counter when he hesitates. And the notion is really rather ridiculous and he is sure that Derek will probably force him to sleep on the floor for this one but… _well fuck it, he chose to date me_.

And so he spins on his heel, plucks the name _Derek_ from the third row of tags and makes his way back to the counter, feeling smug and somehow incredibly achieved, despite being none the wiser about this whole debacle than when he first stepped into the store.

-

Derek is leaning against the hood of his car, hands tucked comfortably in the pockets of his jacket when Stiles has made his way to where Derek had texted him to meet. He’s parked his car on one of the main streets that’s paved with old cobblestones and small shops with wooden painted signs adorning the top archways of each one. It’s not incredibly busy with people but it’s a nice flow of atmosphere, easy and comfortable and each person seems to know the other, save for a few here and there, visitors pausing to stop and explore the town’s streets and shops like Stiles and Derek have.

“Hey.” Stiles gives a jerk of his chin at Derek as he approaches.

Derek turns his face at the sound of his voice and nods in return.

“Find what you were looking for?” He asks, slipping his hands out of his pockets and pushing away from the car.

“Hang out for a moment,” Stiles says with a shake of his head, settling beside Derek, his shoulder pressing against his. He pushes one of the enormous Styrofoam cups in his hand to Derek, followed by a freshly warm soft pretzel wrapped in baking paper.

Derek arches an amused brow at the proffered items.

“The carnival wasn’t enough for you?”

Stiles pulls a face, pretending to be wounded.

“Hey, that was an awesome experience. Even the after part where I thought that I was going to vomit all over you. I got to have a massage and cured with werewolf healing powers.” He shakes his head, dismissing whatever it is Derek is about to object with. “But this is different. That was junk food and precarious to my health. This stuff is homemade. There’s this shop over by the corner and they make it right in front of you. And this,” he sloshes his drink for effect, “is homemade lemonade, man. Both right out of a genuine Mom and Pop store. You don’t come by this just anywhere.”

Stiles bumps his hip against Derek’s, who doesn’t budge, of course but he’s not objecting anymore, fingers curling around the oversized cup and pretzel.

“I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.”

Stiles shrugs, captures the straw in his mouth while trying to look distracted, but he’s hunched his shoulders a little in that quiet way of his.

He doesn’t mean to say it but he does anyway, because Derek makes him _want_ to speak, to talk of things that he’s forgotten how to talk about.

“We used to go to places like this, when I was younger.” Stiles doesn’t clarify the _we_ in that, but Derek doesn’t push it, just nods faintly, quiet acknowledgment that he is so very good at.

They rest against the hood in silence for a while. It’s soft and comfortable and Stiles lets Derek try the cinnamon sprinkled on his pretzel and Derek offers Stiles a try of the mustard slathered on his own. He doesn’t protest when Stiles leans in and takes a greedy bite out of the looping cooked dough instead of tearing off a piece.

Stiles likes the way the breeze teases along the edges of Derek’s hair, brushing through the fringe pushed back from his forehead and Stiles wonders if he should start growing out his own hair again. Maybe he’ll skip the next buzz cut when it comes around.

“Can we stay here?” Stiles asks, eyes slanting over at Derek, squinting slightly against the warm sunlight.

Derek’s gaze settles on Stiles’ face, flickering over his eyes before shifting down.

“You want to?”

Stiles draws in his bottom lip, eyes skating down to Derek’s mouth, not on purpose but it’s sort of become a thing now, and he isn’t even sure how often he does it anymore – how often they _both_ do it.

“I like it. For a day maybe? I saw an inn a few blocks over and I think it might be, I don’t know,” he gives a slow  shrug with his shoulder, the fabric of his flannel shirt brushing against Derek’s leather jacket. “a nice change of pace maybe?”

Derek’s eyes fall away and he nods, as if mulling it over.

He leans in and touches his mouth against Stiles’ lips, soft and slow, a chaste kiss.

“Do you want to walk around some more? I’ll check us in.”

And Stiles thinks that he can wait a little longer for Derek to tell him where they are going with all of this.

-

The town of Whittmore seems to have a fondness for their law enforcement. There is a shop with a separate display of T-shirts featuring an illustration of stout little man with a deputy’s uniform on, hat pushed over his eyes, arms folded over his chest in a way that seems to imply that he’s rather pleased and satisfied with his position. There is a beaver by his feet with a deputy’s hat angled on his head and Stiles spends a good four to five minutes staring at it. Above the man and his, ah, beaver, are the words in bold wonky letters, “We Support our Law Enforcement.” 

Stiles gets a size Large and figures that since his dad doesn’t have any sheriff-related shirts of his own, he is in definite need.

-

It's all wrong when Stiles gets back. He doesn't even need Derek to say anything, Stiles can see it, can feel it before Derek even opens his mouth to explain. He is standing by the edge of the car and he's shifting as if trying to suppress the wolf, hands flexing by his sides and Stiles can see the sharp edges of his nails glinting in the waning sunlight.

“Hey, what's wrong?” Stiles says, nervous and cautious. Because Derek looks like he is on the verge of going mad.

His face snaps to Stiles immediately, and then he is stalking towards him, hand closing around Stiles’ upper arm in a grip that bruises and all but drags Stiles to the car.

“We have to go.” His voice tight, rough and clipped and Stiles swallows, because Derek doesn't talk to Stiles like that anymore, hasn't for so long and now-

“What's wrong Derek? Is there something here? Hey, _look_ at me.”

He shakes his arm in Derek’s grip and that seems to break something in Derek because he suddenly looks at Stiles wide-eyed and a little horrified. His gaze drops to the fingers clenched around Stiles’ arm, as if they are not his own and rips his hand away.

Stiles breathes out slowly, twitches his fingers a little to feel the blood flow again, but he can’t stop looking at Derek, whose eyes are everywhere but on Stiles, flickering around, dark green beads below the furrowed shelf of his brows.

“What is it?” Stiles asks, softer this time. There are a few people on the streets but Derek seems to have forgotten that. He touches the back of Derek’s hand, the tense span of tendons and curled bones.

He tries to follow Derek’s gaze, eyes scanning the streets, but it all looks calm, everything looks _alright_ and Stiles can feel the anxiety creeping up the back of his neck – he’s _missing_ something. A shiver courses down his arms.

“Hey, talk to me, Derek. What is it? Witches? Is it another pack-“

Derek shakes his head. One stiff, aborted movement. He sets his jaw even tighter and Stiles winces.

“Okay, okay, so it's not that,” he murmurs. His fingers settle against the hinge of Derek’s jaw and Derek looks at him sharply.

When he speaks his voice sounds too sharp, desperate and straining on the edge of something about to break.

“It's not that, Stiles. I can't-“

“It's alright, Derek.” Stiles says again, nodding, trying to give Derek time. Because he’s seen Derek like this before, words caught up in his mouth, unable to explain or speak and he knows how frustrated this makes Derek, the loss of _control_.

Derek tightens his mouth, shakes his head as he steps back. Away from Stiles’ touch.

“Hunters.” And Derek’s hands twitch by his sides.

Stiles freezes, the fear suddenly palpable in his mouth.

“Did they hurt you? Derek, are you hurt you have to-“ he's reaching out to Derek, blindly, frantically, tripping over his feet as he rushes to his side because Derek looks alright but if he-

“I'm fine,” Derek bites out, a command for Stiles not to _touch_.

Stiles breathes out, but the air still feels caught in his throat.

“You are.” He says, needs to hear himself say the words out loud and make them true. “But why- you should have called me, we would have left earlier then-“

But Derek is not looking at him, or he’s trying to but Stiles can see the way he draws into himself, beneath the leather of his jacket. He meets Stiles’ gaze after a moment and the words that sift quietly from his mouth sound too heavy, too burdened by something Stiles recognizes but does not understand.

“You liked it here. You wanted to stay.”

It takes Stiles a few seconds to register that statement, what sounds more of a confession than an answer. And Stiles balks at him as the words take root in his ears, gives a vehement shake of his head.

“Are you serious? You're- that's crazy, Derek. Of _course_ we're leaving. We're leaving _right now_.” He grabs Derek’s wrist, forcing Derek to acknowledge him. “You think I would want to be here if something could happen to you? Of course we’re- oh my god, Derek, do you know how mad you make me sometimes? It's like you don't even think. Or you do and it's all twisted and broken up inside your head. You don't even make sense. _We’re leaving.”_

“I can-“ Derek says, he struggles for a moment. “I can go, Stiles, you-“

“Don't you dare,” Stiles whispers fiercely, “don't you fucking dare finish that sentence. We're leaving this place. _Together._ ”

-

The drive is quiet. Stiles hadn't expected Derek to say anything. Stiles is still bristling in his seat, but the anger is beginning to wane into something different, an uneasiness that forces him to keep glancing over at Derek, who feels so far away, despite being right next to him.

Derek’s hands are gripped stiffly around the steering wheel, eyes intent on the road ahead of them, as the sky begins to darken and shift from soft and pale to dark, murky colors. It feels like a storm is coming, or that they’re driving into one and Stiles doesn’t know if he’s projecting analogies from his head or if the weather just has really horrible timing.

He hunches into himself and Stiles can see the way Derek tunes out the world around him, ignoring when the station plays a song that he’d normally protest and Stiles knows that it is not fear that has Derek so on edge, wound so tight that he looks like he would crack if Stiles dared to reach out and curl his fingers around Derek’s elbow. It’s not fear, Stiles can tell, he’s learned how to read Derek and his scowls and pursed lips. It’s anger and guilt and Derek is wrapping these two harbingers around his shoulders like they belong there, like he was wrong to ever think that he could breathe without them heavy and cruel upon his skin and in his ears and snaking through his thoughts.

Stiles wants to say, _It’s not your fault_ , wants to press his fingers against Derek’s neck and chase away everything horrible and awful that is causing Derek to hunch forward, so heavy and burdoned. But Stiles closes his mouth and bites his cheek until it bleeds.

Because it feels like it did when they fought the kanima and Derek was something _other_ , hackles risen high and making it impossible for Stiles to reach him.

_I don’t trust you, you don’t trust me-_

 And Stiles shivers again, huddles deeper into the seat cushions.

-

They stop at a small hotel several miles out of Whittmore. It feels like they've been driving for hours and Stiles’ body feels cramped and sore. But Derek still has not spoken and Stiles can’t help but feel like they are teetering on the edge of something awful. He thinks that maybe Derek just needs time, to be away from Stiles and drown himself in his own quietness, as much as that hurts Stiles to consider and makes him taste something sour and wretched on his tongue.

They’re falling backwards, tumbling back down the steps they had taken to make it to this point and Stiles is afraid they won’t survive the fall back to the bottom, back to the beginning. He doesn’t want to start over.

Stiles pulls out his toothbrush and their shared toothpaste from the side zippered pouch of his duffle bag, turning to face Derek as he straightens and feels the sharp edges of the plastic dig into his palms.

He says, “Do you want to wash up first, or-”

And Derek says, “This was a mistake.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading. :)


End file.
